


Malformed, Yet Functional

by Incasia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angels, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fallen Angels, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Gore, One Shot, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incasia/pseuds/Incasia
Summary: "...She stares and stares until they no longer look like hands. If anything, they don't look like anything that belongs to herself either, but now's not the time for crying over what's happened in the long past, even if that long past wasn't quite long ago. Even if it had actually just happened."My first post! Strongly advised to not read if your easily offended or triggered by the topics above!





	Malformed, Yet Functional

She's dead, is the first thing Claire thinks as she stares at her hands, malformed yet functionable, she stares and stares until they no longer look like hands. If anything, they don't look like anything that belongs to herself either, but now's not the time for crying over what's happened in the long past, even if that long past wasn't quite long ago. Even if it had actually just happened. 

  
Her gown is not much of a gown anymore. It's tattered and ripped and _gone_ and she can feel _something_ down her legs. It's blood, she thinks, just blood. If it's a lie, then she has sinned.  
  
  


She takes a deep breath as she regains her footing. Her legs feel slothful, her heart feels empty with grief. Is this the meaning of despair that that white clad man had ever so prayed upon her very soul? She thinks this as she puts a foot in front of the other. A crook in her side makes it hard to move, but she manages just fine, she’d had liked to think, if she had even cared for her own safety at this point. 

  
  
One foot after the other, just like the people who have fallen before herself, no longer moving, no longer speaking their native tongue that she had so sworn had been familiar to her ears, so familiar the things that they had said and worn, even. So sad and yet so sorrowful as they had killed everyone in sight without so much as a glint of life nor death in their eyes.  
  
  


They had gone now, kissing her roughly and spitting on her with nothing as much as a sigh. Her legs wobble, as something, or many somethings, depending on how you want to look at it, fall and sludge out of her nether regions. She hates this feeling.  
  


  
Hates it.  
  
Hates it.  
  
_Hates it._  
  
  
Her dress is tattered, ripped into delicate shreds all around her, it being the first thing she notices, other than her not-hands as she stares up above.  
  


  
She doesn't want to think about what had just happened before. She couldn’t and she wouldn't, she decided, even feeling so empty as she did.  
  
  


She's hanging above her.  
  
  


Her eyes are empty as her soul feels gross. So very, very _empty and disgusting_ . Claire simply stares before feeling a twisting within her gut, (it hurts so very much) as she goes down below, heaving whatever she hadn't already. Gushing out of her mouth as the tears, dried now on incasia’s corpse, simply just waving in the makeshift breeze, occasionally go down upon the mix of blood and tears and other bodily fluids, some that she, _Would. Not. Name._  
  
Below herself, (or was she an ‘it’ now, on account of ‘her’ not really being here on her own accord?) She's gone, Claire thinks now, her mouth and stomach empty.  
  


  
She looks up again.  
  
_Can_ she leave her?  
  
_Should she leave her?_  
  


  
The answer seems so simple yet so far as she already knows. Her hair, silver in the makeshift wind, sways in itself. Her braids now having long since undone almost caressing her face as she turns. She hesitates with it, however.  
  


  
She can and she will, she decides, before shaking her head and stepping harshly against the ground with _stomps_ that never feel quite right no matter how many steps she takes.  
  
  
Her footsteps have never felt so heavy, as she leaves that child behind.  
  
  
She's gone, her mind repeats, rendering her mind almost filled to the brim of the horrible truth. She's gone, and she couldn't protect her.  
  


  
She couldn't help her, nor could have saved her with a spell or something ever so similar in style to something that _she_ would have no doubt had tried to do, to save her. But she could have done _something_ , a piece of her soul tells her.  
  


  
She could've.  
  
She could've.  
  
She could've.  
  
  
She's so dead-set on thinking these horrible truths in fact, that she doesn't notice the scenery change as the dark set glow of cave set lights flicker and fade away as she falls into darkness. She doesn't notice this, as her heart is pulled and pushed apart by the hands, oh so many hands, of the angel who feeds on emotion.  
  


  
At first, anyway.  
  


  
It takes a while, around 15 minutes at most, when the angel realises who this in fact _is_ as they, (if they could) inwardly groan. Hatred knows all too well that she can’t kill this particular human. Too important, Kain had said to them. So, as much as she wants to, they let the facade go and make it flicker away, leaving a choice in front of the girl. For the first time in a hundred thousand years, they speak, albeit calmly, to this half-dead girl.  
  
  
_Dear girl. You shaint let this world give up in this fight of wit._ _  
_ _You have purpose, to fight for it._ _  
_ _So, listen to this ol’ angels plea._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
_ Claire isn't as confused as she should be if she were in the right frame of mind. Though, she's not. She hasn't been in quite a while. But albeit that fact, she still looks up, not a word reaches from her lips as she simply starts with a huff of air in an attempt at confusion. It fails, most noticeably.  
  
  
_Dear girl,_ _  
_ _Please Live._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
_ Claire looks down at what's beneath herself for the first time in a bit. In the gleaming moonlight, it _should_ have made her take a double take, do anything really, to get her eyes to come to the flash of glistening shine that comes to whatever was on the ground. 

  
  


Claire just stares, though, don't even blink at this, making her presence known only by leaning down and taking the dagger barehanded, cuts coming undone and splashing her hands with blood, her own, she knows the sting of that pain all too well. 

After all, she recognises this weapon. She's seen it as it was stabbed against a man who had yelled with the rage and all of the power of the sun itself.  
  
  
_So with this,_ _  
_ _Make it better._ _  
_ _So next time-_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
_ Claire could have sworn that she hadn't had control of her body as the quick movement as she lets the makeshift knife stab herself in the chest, her collarbone coming undone with bright red blood, as she twists the knife again, releasing it and getting at it again, looking, _reaching_ for either her neck or her heart, she doesn't care which anymore. 

  
  


She can say that who is trying to kill herself at this moment wasn't her, couldn't be her, but with all of this blood coming out of her mouth, covering her tongue with the metallic taste of it, she knows she can’t. She knows, even with no grunts of pain, no cries of when she finally finds it, coming to the ground in one fatal stab wound, she _knows_ that she couldn't, with a clear conscience, say that this was not herself. 

Her legs go first, crashing down on the knees, making scabs no doubt, as her head, ever so heavy yet so sound and light headed go to the ground, too. 

Her lungs are no doubt bleeding as her mouth gushes outward with her lifeblood as her arms as well, after attempting to ground her up, go down with her soul. 

She doesn't have a last thought, nor even a last breath. It's more of a last gurgle if anything, her mouth, almost empty but not quite, reminds whatever (if anything even _is_ , perhaps a renegade bug?) can hear her of the rushing boom of a waterfall. She doesn't see anything either, her eyes too tight, poor girl. 

She only hears, what should be the last thing of her ‘existence’, before this very thing.  
  


  
  
_Wake up again._ _  
_   
  
She'll be somewhere else familiar once again, but as for now—

.

.

.

She's dead.

**Author's Note:**

> All criticism appreciated!


End file.
